The Painter and the Athlete
by Marianne.Mae.Be
Summary: A ten-chapter story of how two entirely different worlds collided and made into one. This is one of the few stories where our protagonists lost each other with distance, almost forgetting each other's existence. Reunited as strangers, of different circumstances. He has it easy, she's broken.
1. Chapter 1

_**[A/N]**_ _This is one of the few stories where our protagonists lost each other with distance, almost forgetting each other's existence. So we're practically starting from scratch._

 _Disclaimer: I don't own PoT though. Just this plot, if you shall, and the OC's._

o o o

 **Chapter 1 |** _ **Portrait**_

For years and years of roaming the globe, achieving and winning titles he so deserved and worked hard for, he decided he needed a break. . . he, the Prince of Tennis, Ryoma Echizen.

A pair of Stan Smith sneakers hopped off the car, and set themselves steadily on the ground in front of the wooden gate of the modern residence he knows quite well as well as he knows his own from childhood. With a smile gracing his handsome features, he was filled with pleasant memories as he caught glance of the graceful figure of a woman shuffling to the gates, to welcome him. _"Indeed, it was nice to be back home,"_ he thought. Well, especially to the sight of a beautiful fine lady looking warmly at you.

She mirrored the smile of the prince, and gave away more. Her 23 years doesn't look like her, for most people would have mistaken her 18 or 20 at most. Her golden shoulder-length wavy hair fluttering with the wind and her emerald, expressive eyes smiling as well.

While his gorgeous smile never leaving, pink plump lips landed to his cheek and her arms wrapped around his neck freely whilst closing the distance between them.

"I've missed you," said she, her eyes sincere and serene, full of reminiscence and affection for him. "I missed you too," he replied echoing her candor.

Fading into the background, breaking the tranquillity of his welcome, came an announcement of her mother's miniature, "DAAAAAAAAD~" she screams. Dashing when she came, she sprang herself to him without reservations, almost sending them both off balance.

"Maki-chan!" he exclaimed, or more like squeaked as he hug her back.

"I missed you Dad!" she said as she squeezes him adoringly, her eyes closed.

"I missed you too, Maki-chan." He replied, smiling. The five-year-old has the same pretty features and golden locks as her mother. The only give away which, without doubt, will tell the world she has the Echizen blood was her hazel feline eyes he knew looks just like his.

Slowly withdrawing herself from his embrace, she finally look at him squarely.

". . ."

". . ." Ryoma smiling from ear to ear.

"Uncle!" she looked shocked, and he giggles, "I was close to fooling you, eh?"

She gave her mom a look of question to which she smilingly replied, "he'll be here very soon too, darling."

"Aren't you glad to see me, Maki-chan?" said Ryoma, smiling to the child.

"Well, I very am uncle!" she replied before hugging him again, "but why isn't Dad with you?" she finally asked.

"He needed to go someplace first," explaining while he rummage in the duffel bag he set on the ground beside him, "but maybe he'll be here before you finish this?" flashing a grin and a rainbow-colored dessert he randomly picked from the candy store at the airport.

He stood straight and again glanced at the house with thoughtful eyes, and breathed in deeply the supposedly fresh air but, "I smell something burning," he said matter-factly.

"Ah!" Makoto panicked, "oh no, I left the stove open, wait," as hurriedly as she was at the gate, she run back to the house.

Ryoma laughed heartily at the clumsiness of her sister-in-law. "All the same," he murmured to no one in particular then went off to fetch the rest of his belongings from the car.

o o o

"Here," Ryoga handed Ryoma the forms he needed to fill-in for his transfer to the university of his choice, while in his other arm he carries his lovely daughter.

Gently setting her down beside her uncle, Ryoma skimmed through the papers at hand. He sat himself after on the seat across his younger image, waiting for his wife of five years, Makoto, finish setting the table for dinner.

"So," Ryoga started, "you really final about this?" referring to stalling his career at Tennis after winning the Grand Slam at the young age of 18.

"For now." He admitted.

In fact he wasn't really sure if living for anything other than tennis will eventually make sense to him, because practically his whole life, until when he won the grandest title for any tennis players, which even his father and brother failed at achieving— was dedicated to the sport. And so, if anything, he's really taking chances.

For the record, it didn't took him long to decide that he wanted to give college a shot. For the past few celebratory months of his great victory, doing interviews and photo shoots, many have voiced their curiosity whether this shall be his transition to retirement. But he explained, "Not at all. I will not retire from Tennis. I don't think I can anyways," with a pause, "my dad will beat me," his humour delivered somehow.

"But I have to admit that I will have a lot of adjustment to do to accommodate the sports and studies."

". . . and love, perchance." An interviewee jested. He just laughed.

He doesn't remember when he had this crazy idea actually, that maybe he could pull off another course for his life now. But without doubt, his family has been supportive of him in his goal. He was in fact surprised that his father would approve, more than anyone else.

"You need a life, kid," he replied without much thought, one time over the phone, "and to promote the Echizen blood," the young lad hung up almost immediately, knowing where the conversation is headed. But he smiled to his father's unfamiliar empathetic nature.

With the two weeks left before the term starts, Ryoma processed his papers efficiently. He had 3 days spare so he went to Kyoto to pay his parents a visit.

Nothing seemed significantly changed in their traditional house. _"Nothing of sorts I would notice, anyways,"_ he thought to himself while he traverse the hallway leading to his bedroom. Even his room was the same as he remembered when he last came and actually slept in it, sometime three years ago. His mom did well in keeping it tidy, he mused.

Since he started competing in Australia as well, he hardly ever gets the chance to set foot in Kyoto. When they come to Japan for appointments, and only when his schedule allows, the family would enjoy the warmth of Ryoga's home in Tokyo, and most times only for a day or three.

Ryoga was made Ryoma's road manager for close to six years, their father resigning from the post. Naturally, he was with Ryoma most of the time, in all his matches, interviews, trainings, everything, all over the world, therefore he's only home once in a while.

"I would like to fire you many times. . ." he told his older brother on Maki's third birthday, her first as his acknowledged daughter, and also Wimbledon's final match "just so you can be with them."

"So dad will kill me, you mean?" he replied sarcastically.

How their dad beating them to death became an inside joke, they could not fathom as well. But they knew it's not half a lie.

Ryoma idly inspected the things he have left in the comfort of his room all the while he rise to stardom. He found his signature cap neatly placed on his nightstand; his old Seigaku jacket pinned and framed, hanging on the wall beside his bed, along with his varsity jackets as national representative to his prominent matches. He smiled to himself when he noticed how they show his growth over the years, the most recent ones barely fitting the frame, folded to only display the print on the back which read 'Ryoma Echizen, Japan'.

Atop the study table he used to study in (or never used at all actually), he found a piece he thought he saw for the first time in his life, and perhaps, was true enough. Uprightly leaning by the wall behind, and beside a tennis ball he almost forgot having possessed, one of which has a caricature of his younger self—was a painting, acrylic on canvass, a portrait of him smiling.

His brows creased in thought of how he deserved such magnificent painting, glowing in his perspective. Inspecting, sadly, it doesn't bear any initials of the artist.

o o o

 _ **[A/N]**_ _Yey! Done with the first chapter of a new story. I am close to wrapping up "It's About Time" so it's about time to start another. What do you think about it? Feel free to tell me._


	2. Chapter 2

_**[A/N]**_ _Update is up!_

 _Disclaimer: I don't own PoT though. Just this plot, if you shall, and the OC's._

o o o

 **Chapter 2 |** _ **Exhibit**_

"How was your first day as university student?" Rinko softly asked over the phone while his son was sitting in the cafeteria alone.

"Worst," Ryoma replied dryly, feeling the eyes of everyone passing or simply standing from afar, even muttering his name with occasional squeals. He definitely heard his dad laugh at the top of his lungs from the other side, "shut him up, Mom," the lad requested, though he knows full well that the call is in loudspeaker anyways.

As you have it, a celebrity coming to university is an uncommon sight for majority of the students, _"is it the same in ALL schools?"_ Ryoma wondered bitterly, remembering his own previous accounts in his high school in the US. Though he knew his mom was being helpful when she offered, "It'll get better" before they hung up, he get it. _"I'll get used to it, you mean?"_

Well, maybe if he hadn't driven his Porsche, or if he had just dressed in walking shorts and loafers instead, maybe he could've had better luck, he thought helplessly. Though that was his opinion, the fact is: it wouldn't make any difference at all. His fame is beyond his imagination, apparently.

For a week, the student population isn't coming any closer to moving on that 'the' Prince of tennis is enrolled in the same university as them, breathing the same air. He isn't feeling any better too. If anything, the fangirls had just found the guts to approach him to ask for a signature or a photo taken, for all he knows, just something to post on facebook or instagram, to show-off.

" _Annoying,"_ he would think every single time it happens, though he feels stupid that he does smile for the camera and sign no matter, _"fan service, tsk."_

"Ugh!" he grunted when he sank himself on the driver seat of his gorgeous car, banging the door. For good five days, it was his haven. At least the faculty was kind enough to grant him a parking slot among the professors and admins, finding about his miserable situation.

He wished he could at least be left in peace in class, but to no avail. All his classes so far are abnormally crowded, and he refuses to think that it's because of him, but well, it is. And he swears this better end because surely he have to attend these shared classes for his whole freshman year. He rolled his eyes at the thought.

Fortunately, with time, his mom's promise came true. His presence still cause a stir but he can manage it well now, including the fangirls occasionally showing up.

During his vacant times (or not necessarily, because in truth, when he just feels like it), he would scout the area, finding his own favourite spots in the process. The 35-hectare campus boasts its green and sustainable architecture and engineering, with abundant breathable and open spaces for interaction and what have you. Dividing the campus into Northeast and Southwest sectors is a stream whose banks are lined with evergreen trees, the top in his list.

His faculty's building is in the Northeast sector, known among the students as the 'SciTech Zone', which true to its name, is where the Sciences and Technology courses are seated. In the opposite bank of the stream, his perspective usually when he idles by, is obviously the Southwest portion of the campus, the 'Humanities Zone', and you can quite guess, where the artists, singers, dancers, actors etc. are mostly found. . . and the rest of his frequently visited places: the Library and the Museum and the courts.

The courts, does it need to be explained? The library, well that's also a given. He would shrug if anyone shall even _have_ to ask, not for the books nonetheless but for the silence it offers— perfect for dozing off.

His next favourite was the museum and unsurprisingly, for the same reasons.

As he was silently eating solo in the cafeteria, as he always has, he was handed a piece of glossy paper of stylish advertisement of the upcoming open exhibit with the theme 'Sending off Spring', _". . . featuring works of Satoshi Miwatari, Kei Oh, Darwin Sung. . ."_ he read without much interest, apparently names of students. Placing the paper beside his plate, he thought, _"No Museum sleeping for a while."_

 _/_

That was a week or two ago, he recalled, stopping by the museum intending to spend idle time here. Clearly, he forgot.

He spun around, suddenly uninterested of going anywhere near the building, seeing the number of people in and out.

"That was Echizen Ryoma right?" his ears twitched in recognition of his own name, though he chose to not mind it in case it was a fan.

"But he seemed young _there_." He heard.

"The artist might be some fan."The first girl shrugged.

"Can't blame her, if she's a girl though" they both chuckled, "what's her name again? I like her style."

"Yes. Her artworks are deeper than the others, some even dark and mysterious," the first girl's voice serious with appreciation. "But I forgot her name too, apparently not here in the flyers," he heard the rustling of the glossy papers he remembered reading with disinterest days ago. Now he wants to check it too.

"But oh! I remember her initials at least," one of the other girls exclaimed, not sure which, "was it R.S.?"

/

The exhibit was open for everyone for five days but only now will he be able to come, on the afternoon of the last day, and they are already tidying the place, bringing down the smaller pieces of artwork. When he lost the chance to come the last four days because he kept getting called for different matters, he would find himself thinking and making a mental list of his acquaintances with the initals R.S. If it was true that somewhere in this museum hung a portrait of him, and if it was really him, well, he wanted to see it too.

He thinks he has reached half of the exhibit but he still hadn't seen an artwork close to being his portrait, unless he looked abstract or floral to the artist, or maybe it was taken down already? Noting that most of the paintings and masterpieces are of landscape, the colors of spring, floral, cherry blossoms, he mindlessly stroll the halls, imagining himself in a maze where you put your right hand to the wall and then follow. He stops occasionally to artworks which flickered his interest—a wagon display; a depiction of a man plowing, made from all sorts of garden tools; a bas relief of what looked like the an astronomical picture of sun but actually made from a single piece of Japanese paper contoured using a dried brush and glue mixture; a ceramic vase with Greek mythology characters painted on its surfaces, are among others.

When he can finally see the exit door, he wasn't expecting to see whatever made him come here in the first place anymore. Disappointed, his steps became lazier, his eyes passively landing by the few paintings left before leaving.

About twenty long paces from being outside again, oddly, as if the paintings are drawing him in, he started staring at the last few of them. He figured it must be because _these_ few last ones are monochromatic, very much in contrast to the rest of the museum. The first among the bunch is a grayscale oil painting on canvass of a leafless tree as if you're viewing if from beneath as it towers over you, and only a single leaf attached to one of the smaller twigs. Whether it depicts the start of new life, or end of one, one cannot tell surely.

Next to it was a watercolour piece on cold pressed paper, entitled 'The eyes I see with'. It could've been a warm sight as it give a picture of foliage reflection on still water, with the faintest indication of ripples. . . if it hadn't been in sepia.

As if sending the visitors away was the only coloured piece from the same artist apparently, though it still lack warmth, if there is any at all. An open window, curtains blowing with the wind, but to a dull sky looking ready to pour down. Confident that he wasn't the only one, he tore his gaze from it, thinking, _"Why open the window to the storm?"_

Ready to leave, his reason for coming forgotten, he turned for the door. When in fact he could've missed it, his eyes were quick to have caught glance of a familiar sight, himself . . . though a lot younger. 'Is his side profile really this glorious?' He thought stupidly, because in this painting of a certain R.S. it does look that way. He understand the confusion of the girls from before, if this masterpiece was indeed him or just some random 'kid', as he was in the portrait. A hint of what he wore, his Seigaku jacket, perhaps was the giveaway when the name flashed his mind, "Ryuzaki Sakuno,"

o o o

 _ **[A/N]**_ _Hi rea-dears, I think this story is gonna be fast paced so we can cover most of our protagonists' journey._ _keep on looking forward to it, eh? 'til next update!_


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